Photo Finish
by MagicSwede1965
Summary: A spirit chooses a very unusual way of communicating with Roarke. Follows 'Welcome to Fantasy Island'.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** _Sorry it's been so long! I had to go back across the country for a few days to take care of some business matters, and there was a fair amount of stress involved in the execution, so my brain was pretty much drained for a while. Fortunately, I seem to be back to normal. (Harry, I apologize for not having gotten back to your PM. Hope the site is working for you again!) Thanks as always to my faithful readers and reviewers. This story may sound somewhat akin to a J.K. Rowling concept, but as a matter of fact the "magical" element to it has been banging around my brain for something like a quarter century, so there's no plagiarism going on here. I hope you'll enjoy this.

* * *

_§ § § -- November 22, 2005

"Come on, guys, eat your breakfast," Leslie said, in her usual morning ritual of urging the triplets to make a little more haste in finishing their food. Actually, this usually went for the girls; Tobias was still an eating machine, and rarely refused anything edible he was given. "If you want to go to the beach…"

"All done, Mommy," Tobias announced with a big grin. Leslie looked around and saw that he was right, as usual. She grinned back at him.

"Good for you, son," she praised. "I wish your sisters would follow your example."

"Oh, there's no need for them to rush, my Rose," Christian said a bit absently, without looking up from the newspaper he was intently reading. "We have the entire day, you don't have to be at work, and there's no hurry."

"It's just that they were so enthusiastic to go when I mentioned it earlier," Leslie said and shrugged. "Well, I suppose there's no pushing toddlers. Hey, tell me, what's so absorbing about that paper that you can't take your eyes off it?"

Christian chuckled. "Keeps me occupied. Besides, it makes a handy shield when the triplets decide to start throwing their food around."

"Oh, you're impossible," Leslie said and broke into laughter. "I guess I'm just wondering if there's something unusually riveting in this particular edition."

"Oh, you know I like to try to keep up with whatever news may be coming out of Lilla Jordsö, whether it involves the family or not. Unfortunately, it looks as if the only bits I can find are in the entertainment section."

"Probably the usual 'updates' on the progress of Rudolf and Louisa's wedding plans," Leslie agreed. "No, Susanna, that's to eat. No throwing." Christian lifted the paper in self-defense, winking at Leslie from behind it, and she had a hard time keeping her stern face.

Ingrid came and took away the little bowl from which Tobias had been eating his oat cereal. "It is all right if I see Jonathan today, Your Highness?" she asked Leslie, with a strong _jordisk_ accent but much-improved English.

"Of course, Ingrid," Leslie said with a smile. "Have a good time." She reached out and caught Susanna's arm, arresting the child in mid-throw. "Mommy said no."

"Susanna Shannon," Christian said in mild warning, accompanying this with a certain look over the top of the newspaper. Susanna looked back and forth between her parents, let her face crumple as if she were about to cry, and then reluctantly poked the little oat circle into her mouth. She had a dejected expression on her face that Christian and Leslie were hard-put not to laugh at.

Ingrid was loading the dishwasher, and Susanna and Karina had both finally settled down to cleaning out their bowls, when Christian made a noise of surprise in the middle of sipping from his coffee mug. "Myeko's been busy," he remarked, setting the mug down. "She reports two obituaries in her column. One of them is Agata Grimsby…the spinster sister of the _jordisk_ jewelry-store-chain owner. She was eighty-five, it says here. I remember meeting her once when I was dating Karin, at Karin's birthday party. She was quite a spry old lady—not even remotely ready to stop living. I imagine she didn't go without a terrific fight."

Leslie grinned. "I hope at least it was a nice peaceful death. Who else?"

"Don't worry, my Rose, it's not Carson Howland Casey, I assure you." She rolled her eyes and he chuckled; he occasionally teased her about her interest in the surviving actors from her favorite TV series, whose third season was due out on DVD shortly. "Agata Grimsby died Saturday, and some actor named Kenneth Auclaire died yesterday. It says here he was 90. He was a fairly popular film actor in the 40s and 50s, according to this, but he retired during the late 70s and hasn't been heard from since, till now." Christian shrugged and began to fold the paper. "Other than that, Myeko's column just contains the usual bits she's gleaned from the _jordisk_ press about plans for Rudolf and Louisa's wedding. Truly, I keep expecting her to call here at any time and try to coax something out of me so she won't have to just repeat whatever Katha Kymling's columns say in _Sundborgs Nyheter."_

"What'd you say? Katta Shewmling?" Leslie repeated, stumbling on the _jordisk_ name.

"Yes…good attempt at pronouncing it. A well-known _jordisk_ entertainment reporter," said Christian. "She once called me the Royal Family Heartthrob. Ridiculous, isn't it? I can't imagine royals in eras before the twentieth century ever had to put up with nonsense like that." Something caught his eye and he brightened. "Oh, good for you, Karina, you finished all your breakfast! Pretty soon, if your sister gets on the ball, we'll all get down to the beach and you can play in the sand to your hearts' content."

"A nice, anonymous activity," Leslie teased, and he grinned good-natured acknowledgment and set aside the paper to finish his coffee.

§ § § -- December 3, 2005

The day after the triplets' eighteen-month birthday, Roarke and Leslie were standing at the plane dock as always, awaiting the disembarkation of that weekend's guests, discussing the upcoming Christmas holiday. "So you've decided to leave for Lilla Jordsö the day after?" Roarke was asking.

Leslie nodded. "We promised the family we'd be there in plenty of time for Rudolf and Louisa's wedding on New Year's Day, and we also promised we'd bring the triplets this time. We don't make too many appearances on Christian's home turf, so I have a feeling we'll be the center of a minor media circus. What a coda to the holidays."

Roarke laughed. "That, I am afraid, is the life of a royal. Consider yourself fortunate that Christian's family doesn't insist you come to live with them. Ah, yes, here comes our first guest—do you recognize her, Leslie?"

Leslie squinted slightly in the bright sunshine and searched her brain for a name to pin on the vaguely familiar face of the middle-aged blonde woman just stepping out of the seaplane's hatch. "I could swear I've seen her somewhere…"

"Mrs. Cindy Grainger," Roarke provided. "The young lady I myself took in for a few years prior to your arrival on the island, who at one time helped us when we spent a few months in 1979 granting children's fantasies."

Leslie jutted her head forward, as if this had the effect of a telescope so she could more clearly see the lady's face. "Is that really Cindy? Wow, I just realized how many years it's been since we saw her! So she has a fantasy?"

"Indeed she does. I know you and she never knew each other especially well, but perhaps she might have told you at some time about her great love of old films from the 1940s and '50s. She was particularly interested in the life and career of a B-list actor named Kenneth Auclaire, who is very recently deceased."

"I think she probably talked about her favorite old movies, but I don't remember her ever mentioning Kenneth Auclaire. Funny, Christian noticed his obituary in the island newspaper a couple of weeks ago. Well, let's see, she can't be asking to meet him, now that he's dead. What does her fantasy have to do with him?"

Roarke paused for a few seconds before he spoke. "I'm not sure, my child. Long ago, when she was approximately sixteen, I recall her writing him a fan letter, and in response she received an autographed photo of Mr. Auclaire. When she contacted me, she told me her fantasy has something to do with this picture, but that was all she would say."

Leslie turned to look directly at him. "And you accepted her fantasy request based on that? That's not like you, Father."

"No, but not unprecedented, as you yourself should remember," Roarke reminded her with a small smile. His dark eyes clouded over once more and he studied Cindy, who by now had collected three or four leis and was holding a tropical drink in a hollowed-out pineapple shell. "I might not normally have granted such a vague request, but I've known Cindy for too many years. She's a sensible, grounded woman and would never ask this of me without good reason. So I agreed to wait to hear the full story—and I promise you, Leslie, we most certainly shall."

Leslie smiled tolerantly. "Well, as long as I've got your promise, I can wait. Anyway, it'll be fun to catch up with her."

‡ ‡ ‡

Cindy Grainger was now in her early fifties and had been teaching tenth-grade English at Fantasy Island High School for the last twenty years. "So you're still at the high school!" Roarke remarked, smiling broadly. "You must enjoy teaching these young people, to have been working at this same job for so long."

"I love it," Cindy said. "Sometimes it seems futile, I admit it. I mean…you'd be amazed how many kids I get at the beginning of every school year who have terrible spelling skills, or don't have a clue how to use punctuation properly, or have atrocious grammar. And I've noticed that the majority of them tend to come from the Air Force base—the product of too many American schools where every system has its own curriculum and things are taught at a myriad different paces." Roarke and Leslie nodded understanding. "So I devote the first semester of every new school year to remedial spelling, grammar and punctuation skills. I think I manage to reach enough of them to make the effort worth it. I always have one or two who just seem to be naturally gifted with the mechanics of the language, so I put them through their paces at the beginning of each year, find out what they already know, and then keep the proficient ones busy with essays and creative-writing assignments while I'm sharpening the other kids' skills. It must be working—I haven't been fired yet."

They all laughed. "I wish you'd been my tenth-grade English teacher," Leslie admitted cheerfully. "I'm afraid my teacher that year concentrated on the so-called classics of literature. She was especially partial to Shakespeare, and she was always springing little pop quizzes on us about the meanings of obscure phrases that people stopped using in the eighteenth century. Half the time she even talked like a Shakespearean character."

Cindy laughed aloud. "She's the one I replaced," she said. "She was a good teacher, she just had her idiosyncrasies. I wanted to make things a little more interesting. I know you'd been out of school for a few years when I started teaching—I was hired beginning the 1985-86 school year."

Leslie nodded. "I graduated two years before that."

"That's right," Cindy said. "I remember now—I started my first year of teaching right after you married that guy from Finland. I'm starting to see your friends' kids coming through—right now I've got Haruko Miyamoto and David Omamara in my class, along with my own son, Taylor. My daughter Madison's ten and a fifth-grader this year."

Just then the foyer door opened, and Haruko herself came in with the stroller bearing the triplets. "Hi, Mr. Roarke and Miss Leslie…the triplets've had enough sun, I think." She concentrated on getting the stroller down the steps into the study as she spoke, so that at first she didn't see their guest. "I didn't think it was a good idea to—oh wow, hi, Mrs. Grainger, what're you doing here?"

Cindy grinned at her. "Hi, Haruko. I've got business with Mr. Roarke and Leslie this weekend. How's that short story coming along?"

"Slowly," Haruko said with a sheepish little smile. "I hope I can work on it some more when the triplets are napping this afternoon."

Cindy grinned. "Just don't forget that 'all right' is two words, not one."

Haruko sighed gently and protested, "But _everybody_ uses A-L-R-I-G-H-T."

"That doesn't make it correct," Cindy countered with mild reproval, "not even when The Who uses it." At the girl's blank look, she grinned ruefully. "The Who is a rock group, very popular when I was your age. But they were rock musicians, not grammatical experts. So I'd advise against citing them as an example."

"No, I guess you're right," Haruko agreed. "I'm really trying, Mrs. Grainger. Anyway, I didn't mean to barge in on you, Mr. Roarke."

Roarke said warmly, "That's quite all right, Haruko. Leslie, why don't you go ahead and help her get the children upstairs, and then we'll discuss Cindy's fantasy."

Leslie agreed, and Haruko put Karina and Tobias into her arms before gathering up Susanna. Following Leslie up the stairs, she whispered, "Mrs. Grainger's got a fantasy?"

Leslie topped the steps and cast Haruko a glance over her shoulder. "You sound surprised," she teased. "Teachers have fantasies too, you know."

"It just seems, I don't know, weird," Haruko said and shrugged. Susanna giggled at the movement and she tickled the little girl's tummy, to answering squeals of delight. "Well, I hope whatever fantasy she's got turns out good for her."

"We're going to do our best," Leslie said. "Okay, you guys, be good for Haruko now, okay? Mommy has to go back down and help Grandfather." She gave each child a kiss atop the head and left them in Haruko's care.

A moment later she was back in her chair opposite Cindy, who smiled at her. "I was just telling Mr. Roarke that you and your husband did a great job of picking out a babysitter. Haruko's a good student and she works hard, she just has a hangup about that stupid non-word we talked about a minute ago."

Leslie grinned. "You must be singlehandedly trying to stamp out the use of the telescoping of 'all right'."

"That's one of my eternal fantasies, I admit it," Cindy said, theatrically laying the back of her hand against her forehead and pretending to swoon. Roarke and Leslie laughed, and Cindy chuckled with them and resettled herself in her chair. "But I figured I'd better pick a more possible dream. Mr. Roarke, I'd like you to take a look at this." She picked up her purse and reached inside, withdrawing a framed 4"x6" color head shot of a handsome man who smiled in friendly fashion at the camera. Scrawled across the bottom of the photo was the message, _To my friend and fan, Cindy. Yours, Kenneth Auclaire._

Roarke smiled when he got a good look at it. "I remember when you first received this—you were extremely excited."

Cindy nodded, her face turning a delicate shade of pink. "You probably also remember that I always had this displayed in a prominent place in my room, before I moved out to go to college. I took this with me everywhere. When I married Bruce and we got our first apartment, I made sure to put up a special little knickknack shelf just for this frame. Bruce thought it was hilarious, but he's always been tolerant enough. My kids call me a geek." She shrugged self-consciously. "But they never really meant anything by it. The day after Kenneth Auclaire died, when I saw the obituary in the island newspaper, I actually cried. I've always admired his work, and I've always heard he was easy to work with and that everybody liked him because he was friendly and personable and never had a bad word to say about anyone."

"So I understand," Roarke said, handing the frame back across the desk to her.

"Bruce wasn't home yet and the kids were with friends," Cindy said, studying the picture within the frame. "I got up to cut the obit out of the paper, and I walked past the shelf this frame was sitting on and glanced up at the picture. And Mr. Roarke, Kenneth winked at me and said, 'Don't cry, Cindy, it was my time'."

Leslie's gaze flitted from Cindy to Roarke, without moving her head; her expression was one of pure confusion. Roarke leaned forward slightly and said, "I beg your pardon?"

Cindy cleared her throat and finally met Roarke's stare, the color in her face deepening even as they watched. "Well, maybe not Kenneth…uh, Mr. Auclaire himself. Or maybe it was—I mean, it _is_ his picture…"

"Are you saying that his image in that photograph spoke to you?" Roarke asked, very slowly and carefully.

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Mr. Roarke," Cindy replied solemnly, staring directly at him. "I don't know why, but I tell you, ever since I saw the death notice, when I'm alone in the house and I happen to be near that picture, and look at it, he…well, his image…smiles at me, says hello, stuff like that."

"Wow," Leslie finally uttered.

Roarke slowly sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful, yet ever so slightly skeptical, all at once. "I must say, this is unique in my experience. In all my days, the possibility of such a phenomenon has never once occurred to me."

"Well, lucky me to be breaking new ground," Cindy said dryly.

Leslie laughed, and Roarke smiled. "That aside…how do you react when the image speaks to you?"

Cindy opened her mouth and then caught herself, frowning a little, then somehow managed to turn more ruddy than ever. "At first it just scared me…made me wonder what in the world was happening to me. I thought, _you need a vacation, Cindy, you've been lecturing too many kids about the evils of 'alright' and apostrophe misuse._ I thought I was going insane for a while. But the picture just kept smiling and saying hi to me. Then I spent a few minutes thinking, a couple days after this started happening, and I realized, _hey, wait a minute, you're on Fantasy Island._ Maybe there was a reason for all this, you know? So the next time the picture…Mr. Auclaire…said hi to me, I took a breath and said hi back. And…good grief, Mr. Roarke, the next thing I knew we were having an honest-to-goodness conversation."

"Getting to know you?" Leslie suggested, unable to keep from grinning.

"Something like that. I told him who I am and all about me, and sooner or later it got around to where I lived, and suddenly—well, that's when it got really strange. Not that it wasn't, but it got more so. He said to me, 'You have to take me to Mr. Roarke.' I knew you were busy, but I thought I'd take a chance. I remember you tend to slow down when Christmas is coming. So, well, here we are…uh, here I am."

Roarke eyed the frame Cindy still held in her hands. "Has the photo ever spoken to you when anyone else is in the room?"

"No, only when I'm alone. It's probably just as well. Bruce and the kids already think I'm a little obsessed with Kenneth Auclaire and his life and times. Madison keeps teasing me about writing his biography. If Kenneth…Mr. Auclaire…his picture started talking to me when they were around, well…"

Roarke nodded. "I understand. And you were told to come and see me."

"That's what he wanted," Cindy said. "Of course, since I left home, there hasn't been a peep out of him, but…" She slanted a sidelong look at Leslie. "I don't know if he'll come out when there's anyone else in the room but Mr. Roarke and me."

Leslie smiled resignedly. "That figures. One of the most exciting fantasies we've had in years, and I probably don't even get to witness the best part of it. Well, I'll be upstairs with the triplets in case your picture changes its mind." Screwing up her face at the oddity of her own comment, she got up and departed the room.

Left alone, Roarke and Cindy waited for a moment, both intently watching the photo of Kenneth Auclaire. When nothing happened, Cindy cleared her throat, cast a nervous, embarrassed glance in Roarke's direction, and leaned forward slightly, hunching over the frame in her hands. "Uh…Mr. Auclaire," she began hesitantly, "it's just me and Mr. Roarke now. Just like you asked."

Still nothing happened, and Roarke sat back in his chair, as if making himself comfortable. "Tell me, Cindy, have you noticed any sort of pattern to these…animated episodes?" he asked. "For example, does he seem to, uh, appear at a certain time of day?"

Cindy frowned. "Not that I've seen. All I know is that he comes out only when I'm alone. Maybe that's what it takes." She reached out and gently tapped the top of the frame. "Mr. Auclaire?"

The photo remained still, and Cindy fell back in her chair with some frustration. "That really takes the cake. I put you to all the trouble of agreeing to grant this fantasy of mine, and now he can't even be bothered to show up."

"Patience, Cindy," Roarke said, just noticeably amused. "Perhaps what is needed is my own departure from the room. Does he…'appear' every time you are alone, or only some of those times?"

"Not really every time," Cindy said, thinking back and slowly shaking her head. "But he's there more often than not."

"What do you do when he begins to speak to you?" Roarke asked.

Cindy gave him a blank look. "I talk back."

Chuckling, Roarke sat up again and folded his arms in front of him on the desktop. "You tell me that you have a special shelf just for that frame. Do you remove it from the shelf when the photo…uh, comes to life, or do you leave it in place?"

"Oh, I see," she mused. "No, I just take a chair nearby, and leave the frame on the shelf. I've never tried taking it down and placing it closer." She suddenly brightened and stared at Roarke. "Do you think that's the problem? That I'm holding it in my hands, when I should have set it on top of your desk?"

"It's a possibility," said Roarke. "Try it now."

Cindy pushed aside a crystal cup containing several pens and carefully placed the photo frame beside it, positioning it so that both she and Roarke could see the photo. Once more Cindy said, "Okay, Mr. Auclaire, we're waiting."

And this time, something happened. Roarke and Cindy saw a sudden curious depth to the photo, and they got the sense of a three-dimensional image. Kenneth Auclaire's head bobbed, his smile changed character and almost faded, and he focused on Cindy. "Hi there, Cindy," he said in a friendly, familiar tone that suggested they knew each other well.

"Hi, Mr. Auclaire," Cindy said. "I've brought you to Mr. Roarke."

Roarke nodded to the photograph. "Good morning, Mr. Auclaire."

Auclaire's eyes shifted to Roarke and he lit up with relief. "Mr. Roarke, you can't imagine how glad I am that Cindy's done as I asked. I really need to ask you a favor."

Roarke looked at him askance. "Before you do, may I ask a few questions of my own?"

"Certainly," said Auclaire.

Roarke paused a moment, frowning slightly, as if searching for the words he needed. After a moment he asked, "If I may…how did you come to find yourself using this method of communication? This is a very rare, if not unique, phenomenon. I'm afraid I am having considerable trouble sorting out the reasons this is happening."

Auclaire shrugged. "I'm not exactly well-informed myself, I'm sorry to say. I don't know what happened. My last clear memory, from when I was alive anyway, is of hearing a nurse telling me that if I felt I needed to go, it was all right. She may have been beside me when I died. It was like falling asleep—next thing I knew, I heard someone crying, and I wanted to give some comfort. I didn't even think about what I was doing—it was like my memory was erased. I just opened my eyes, saw the young lady, and told her not to grieve, since it had been my time. Later on I started wondering why this was happening."

"No one spoke to you?" Roarke asked. "You received no explanation?"

"Nothing," said Auclaire apologetically. "I was hoping you could tell me, frankly."

Roarke shook his head. "I can only suggest, and my theory is that someone gave you some manner of…second chance. Perhaps you had unfinished business."

Auclaire's expression became pensive. "As a matter of fact, I do, Mr. Roarke. That brings me to the favor I want to ask you. You may be aware of my life story."

"Somewhat," said Roarke. "I know primarily whatever the studio publicity machine chose to make public, and perhaps some things that Cindy told me. She is a most ardent fan of yours." He smiled, casting Cindy a gently teasing glance.

Auclaire grinned. "I know, and I'm flattered." His expression sobered again. "But there was one thing that never came out—I don't think even Cindy would have known about this. I…I'm the father of a son I never knew. He was the product of my second marriage."

Cindy broke in then, "But you were widowed, weren't you?"

"I was," said Auclaire with a nod, his voice heavy with remembered grief. "We had tried three times to have a baby, and each time she miscarried. But she became more and more determined to give me a child. The fourth attempt succeeded."

"It never came out," Cindy protested. "I mean…well, I knew about the three miscarriages, but I had no idea…"

"We kept the pregnancy a secret, because we were afraid the same tragedy would happen all over again. Well, it did, but in reverse this time. My wife died giving birth to our son. I was beside myself—I really didn't think I could live without Lydia, and I found myself resenting the baby for killing her. I know now it wasn't his fault." He looked pleadingly at Roarke. "It took me years to reach that understanding. But at the time I was young and stupid and arrogant. So I insisted that everything be kept under wraps, that nothing of this should ever get out. I paid some people to keep quiet, threatened others.

"The baby, I gave up for adoption. I didn't want to see his face and be reminded of Lydia for the rest of my life. Now, as you know, I married again, and we remained married till she died six years ago. We never had children, and after she was gone I started thinking about my missing boy. He's my only child, Mr. Roarke. I acted rashly and foolishly the day I let him go, and I came to regret it deeply. I made up my mind to rewrite my will so that everything I own goes to my son—if he's ever found." Auclaire cleared his throat and focused on Roarke. "That's the favor I'm asking you. Please, find my boy."


	2. Chapter 2

§ § § -- December 3, 2005

"Oh, my gosh," Cindy whispered, her eyes huge. "Oh, Mr. Auclaire, I'm so sorry. But if anyone in the world can find your son, it's Mr. Roarke."

Roarke chuckled. "I appreciate the vote of confidence, Cindy, but surely you're both aware that it won't be an easy thing. I believe I will be able to locate him, but first I will need certain pertinent details in order to begin my search. You'll have to provide me with your son's date and place of birth; I'll also need to know the name of the agency that handled the adoption."

"I'll give you all the information I can, Mr. Roarke," Auclaire said with great hope in his voice. "Something tells me I won't be able to rest till my son is found and everything is officially passed along to him. Thank you both for whatever help you can give."

"I don't know how much help I can be," Cindy said. "It's more likely Mr. Roarke's daughter will be helping him out."

"Your daughter? I never knew you were married," Auclaire said.

Roarke laughed. "Actually, Leslie is my adopted daughter," he said. "Like Cindy, she came to me as a ward, at the age of nearly fourteen; we grew close, and I formally adopted her as a high-school-graduation gift. She has been my assistant for the last fifteen years, and Cindy is correct—Leslie will be doing additional research into the matter."

Auclaire nodded. "I see. Leslie, huh?"

"Leslie Hamilton," said Cindy. "Well, Enstad now. You must've seen the press that surrounded her wedding to Prince Christian of Lilla Jordsö a few years ago."

"Actually, I'm afraid I didn't. I stopped reading papers or watching television after Trudy died, and I was already pretty ill myself. It was a lingering and painful illness, and I have to admit I'm more than glad it's all over. So, Mr. Roarke, you've got a prince for a son-in-law, eh? Must be pretty strange."

Roarke laughed. "Christian is quite unlike any royalty I have known in my time. He is a fine young man, and he and Leslie are very much in love. They have triplets, two girls and a boy."

"Oh, you're a grandpa," Auclaire said, grinning. He sighed, the grin fading into a wistful little smile. "Maybe I'm a grandpa too. I sure hope you can find out for me." He went on to give Roarke the basic information he had asked for.

"We will do our very best," Roarke promised. "Now, perhaps Cindy would prefer to repair to her bungalow for a while, and once I fill Leslie in, we can begin."

Auclaire smiled, then his image stilled back into the original photo; and Cindy picked up the frame, rising. "Thanks, Mr. Roarke. I figured this was going to be a pretty weird thing, but you rose right to the challenge."

"That's my business," Roarke replied. "Take a rest, now, and Leslie or I will notify you when we find something."

‡ ‡ ‡

In the bungalow she had been assigned for the weekend, Cindy carefully placed the framed photo atop the coffee table in the main room and went into the bedroom to unpack the small suitcase she'd brought with her. She'd barely opened the lid, though, before she heard Kenneth Auclaire's voice call her from the other room, and returned a little hesitantly to respond. "Is something wrong, Mr. Auclaire?"

"Oh, not at all…I just wanted some company. Come and sit down where I can see you. Hmm, looks like a nice little place."

Cindy, feeling absurd despite herself, slowly lowered herself onto the sofa facing the frame. "Mr. Roarke's resort is very well kept-up," she said. "It's a hallmark of his to provide the best possible accommodations."

"That's a man who knows how to cater to his guests," Auclaire said approvingly. "I just wish I'd been able to get here once before I died. Always meant to, but somehow I never got around to it. Strange way for me to finally make it happen."

Cindy blew out her breath. "You're not kidding. I helped Mr. Roarke out for a while, years ago, when he set up a trial run with granting children's fantasies. It turned out to be too much for him to handle with the extra workload, so he ended it after a couple of months or so. In any case, while it lasted, I acted as an extra assistant…and I definitely saw a few peculiar things. Nothing like this, though."

Auclaire chuckled. "Yup, I just bet I'm one of the really weird ones. Don't mince words, Cindy. Call it whatever you like, we both know it's true."

Cindy shifted in her seat. "Mr. Auclaire…if you don't mind…tell me about your son, the day he was born." She saw the mask of grief and regret transform his face and bit her lip. "I don't want to seem harmless, but who knows…maybe something you remember could help Mr. Roarke's search."

He considered this for a moment, then sighed, long and quietly. "You have a point. I really do want everything squared away so I can rest." He met her gaze, and she leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, listening intently.

Auclaire's voice was soft, almost a monotone; his eyes had lost focus and his mind was somewhere very far away. "He was born in 1941, my little boy…I guess that'd put him at close to retirement age now, wouldn't it? April 28, 1941, in a little hospital in Beverly Hills, a quiet place where they were used to celebrities giving birth and knew how to keep out the press and how to maintain privacy. I guess even then I was afraid of something happening, like a jinx or something. If only I hadn't been so right.

"Poor Lyddie, she strained and strained. Sweated rivers, gasped for breath, could barely stay conscious enough to keep pushing. That boy just didn't want to come out. They said he was breech, trying to come out backside first, and every time the doctor turned him the proper way and told Lyddie to start pushing, the kid turned himself back around. It happened four times before someone finally got the bright idea to just grab him and pull, but by then it was too late. Lyddie'd been in labor for almost fifty hours at that point and there was just nothing left in her. The baby was too big. She was so tiny, barely five feet tall. The baby weighed almost ten pounds when he finally came out. She'd lost too much blood and she was too weak, and she just…let go."

Cindy was outraged. "That should never have happened! Granted, it was over sixty years ago, but they should have known to do a C-section!"

"Lyddie wouldn't allow it. She was an actress too, you see, and she didn't want them cutting her open and leaving scars that might get captured on film later. Nobody could talk her into changing her mind, and she died for her vanity. And yet…" Auclaire's face contorted. "Yet I blamed that innocent baby for killing her, when it was her own fault and she could've been saved if she'd let them perform that damn operation."

Cindy swallowed and ventured, "You must have loved Lydia so much that there was no way she could do wrong in your eyes."

Auclaire finally focused on her. "I'm afraid so, Cindy. It took me a long time to fall in love with Trudy later, and an even longer time for me to see that it was Lyddie's own fault she died in childbirth. All for the sake of preventing a few stupid scars."

"What happened afterward?" Cindy asked gently.

"I was mad with grief and I really couldn't think beyond losing Lyddie. By the time I had any of my wits about me again, the baby was three days old and they were asking me when I wanted to take him home. That's when I exploded. I told them I wanted nothing to do with that child and I wanted arrangements made to give him up for adoption. They brought in people to try to talk sense into me, but I was young and stubborn, and I wouldn't listen. So the hospital made the arrangements for me. I don't really know the particulars. The only thing I remember is signing the paper giving up all rights to the baby and seeing the name of the agency that was handling it. Stupid name, I thought, that was the only reason I remembered it. Bluebell Adoptions."

Cindy nodded; Roarke had collected this same information at the main house earlier. "You don't even know who the person was who was assigned to your case?"

"No, a nurse brought me the papers. She tried one more time to coax me into at least holding the baby before I signed, but I just held out my hand for the paper, and she had to give it to me." He sighed again. "For all their lack of approval of my decision, they respected my privacy after all. That's why nobody ever found out about it, outside the hospital and the adoption agency."

Cindy settled back in her seat, feeling drained for some reason. "Well, believe me, Mr. Auclaire, like I said—if anyone can find him, it's Mr. Roarke."

‡ ‡ ‡

"I have to admit," Leslie remarked from the computer where she was researching the Bluebell Adoption Agency, "I'm amazed Kenneth Auclaire's secret stayed a secret. You'd think the press would be all over it, reporting this terrible thing he did to his own child."

Roarke smiled slightly. "The press was rather different in those days, Leslie. Show business itself was different. There was no television, as you well know, and the film studios had almost complete control over the medium. Of course, there were as many so-called 'scandals' in those days as there are now; but the studios worked to keep as much as possible under wraps, so that the public could believe in the illusion that their cinematic idols were perfect, shining examples of glamorous and wonderful lives."

"Were people really that gullible?" Leslie asked, amused, clicking on a link.

"I don't think they were gullible so much as they were simply innocent," Roarke said. "At the time Mr. Auclaire's son was born, the Great Depression was a very recent memory and the country was still recovering. World War II was in progress and within several months, the United States itself would become involved. It was a time when people wished to escape the real world and pretend that everything was lighthearted and fun."

Leslie nodded slowly, absorbing this. "I guess I can understand that. Problem is, with things like that kept so well hidden, that just makes it all the harder to track him down."

"Indeed," Roarke said. "But have faith, Leslie, as I've so often reminded you."

She shot him a defensive look. "I didn't say it was impossible. I just said it'd be hard."

Roarke laughed. "Very well, I stand corrected. Have you been able to find anything yet on the adoption agency?"

Leslie turned her attention back to the computer screen. "As a matter of fact…" she began, letting her voice trail off while she read what was on the monitor. After a moment she shook her head. "The Bluebell Adoption Agency closed down in 1969. All its records were turned over to the county archives, it says here. So whatever county Beverly Hills is in, that's where we'll have to go for the records."

Roarke nodded. "Look that up for me and give me the phone number if you would, Leslie. I'll handle the problem from there, and in the meantime I'd like you to get the day's mail to the post office and check in with Julie and Chef Miyamoto about menus."

She read the phone number to him while he picked up the phone and began punching it out; then she gathered up the mail and left, still thinking about the Auclaire fantasy. She'd started calling it that from the moment Roarke had filled her in on the conversation he and Cindy had had with what appeared to be nothing more than a moving, living photograph; after all, Cindy had simply been the vehicle by which Auclaire had contacted Roarke, and it was his fantasy. She grinned to herself on the way into town, anticipating Christian's reaction when she got the chance to tell him about it at lunch.

When that hour arrived and they had all seated themselves at the table, with the triplets in their high chairs contentedly munching on carrot strips and small, thin slices of ham, Roarke remarked, "It seems both fantasies are going very well so far. Lila Murchison is greatly enjoying her climb of Mount Everest, and I've managed to track down Mr. Auclaire's current descendants."

Leslie caught the plural of the last word. "So there're more than one?"

"Yes," Roarke said. Christian paused to listen in. "I've already arranged for them to make the trip here, and they should arrive on tomorrow morning's plane."

"Ah," Christian said with a smile, "a family reunion?"

Roarke hesitated just a second or two. "Not exactly, Christian," he said.

Leslie grinned. "It's more of a lost-family-found thing," she said.

Christian glanced back and forth between them and rolled his eyes. "You two do enjoy tormenting me," he complained lightly. "Go ahead, what's the rest of the story?"

"I have tracked down the long-lost son of actor Kenneth Auclaire," Roarke said, "a man whose existence is unknown to the public. We just found out about him this morning from Mr. Auclaire himself."

"Kenneth Auclaire…Kenneth Auclaire…" Christian muttered, frowning slightly. "For some reason that name sounds familiar, even though I'm sure I've never heard of him."

"You saw his obituary in the newspaper last month, my love," Leslie said helpfully.

Christian snapped his fingers, making the triplets look up at him. "Oh yes, that's right. I remember seeing it alongside Agata Grimsby's death notice." Then it hit him and he froze, only his eyeballs moving to fix upon Roarke. "Now wait a moment. If this man's dead, how could he have told you about his long-lost son this morning?"

"He spoke with me himself," Roarke assured him. "Through a photograph."

Christian groaned. "Now you've lost me completely. Leslie, my Rose, would you be so kind as to fill me in?"

Laughing, Leslie provided the full story of what had happened that morning. "Mind you, I myself didn't get to see the phenomenon," she said. "He'd show himself only to Cindy and Father. But you can bet that if Father says it happened, then it happened."

Christian was chuckling a little ruefully. "I should know better by now than to be amazed by much of anything that happens here anymore. A moving photograph, hm? I find it interesting that you've never encountered this particular situation before, Mr. Roarke."

"So do I," Roarke agreed, sitting back in his chair to contemplate for a moment. "One would think that there are far more souls than merely Mr. Auclaire's out there, leaving unfinished business behind when they pass on. I'm sure that much of this business is in fact completed eventually, by descendants; but Mr. Auclaire certainly isn't the only one in his situation. Confronted with his predicament, I find myself wondering why this hasn't happened already, and more often."

"I'd venture a guess that it probably _has_ happened in the past," Leslie suggested, "but the previous times, you were contacted via different methods. Mr. Auclaire just seems to have chosen an unusual way of doing it."

"Highly unusual," Roarke agreed. He cast Christian a teasing glance. "Now that he's paved the way, as it were, somehow I doubt I would be surprised if you come to me in the near future claiming that a photo of your mother or your father has been speaking to you."

"Then please fate, let it be Mother," Christian said with another eyeroll, making them laugh. "Although with my luck, it would probably be my father. Before that image decides to take over my brain, let me ask—who are Mr. Auclaire's descendants?"

About ninety minutes later Cindy, having been summoned to the main house and told to bring the photograph, asked the same question, and Roarke cleared his throat, seeing the image of Kenneth Auclaire reanimate itself and focus intently on him. "I have discovered," he said slowly, "that your infant son was adopted in mid-May, 1941, by a couple named Hollister, from Wisconsin, and given the name Dennis. He was married in 1963 to a woman named Maria, who bore him a daughter in 1965; her name is Melody.

"In 1967 Dennis Hollister, who had enlisted in the Marine Corps five years earlier, was sent to Vietnam, where he was killed that same year." Roarke said this very softly, with a sympathetic look at Auclaire, who winced. "I am terribly sorry."

"Vietnam," muttered Auclaire. "So many good men died there…I'm sorry, Mr. Roarke, what happened to my son's wife and little girl?"

"It seems that Maria died of cancer when Melody was still a child; there is a record of her death on file in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. The lady seems to have endured more than her share of hard knocks: at this time Melody lives in a homeless shelter with her two children, Nathan and Hannah Ireland. I have arranged for all three of them to come here to the island, at my expense."

Auclaire was gaping at him. "Good Lord, Mr. Roarke, how'd you do all that?"

Roarke smiled. "It wasn't very difficult," he said cryptically, making Cindy grin. "But I must warn you…her reception of the news that you are in fact her biological grandfather may not necessarily come as a pleasant surprise to her. And to say the least, having you yourself tell her so…"

"Yeah, I see what you mean," Auclaire admitted. "But I'd think she'd welcome the knowledge that she's inheriting everything I owned."

"Inheritances may seem like blessings, but too often they can be burdens," Roarke said. "However, it will be your granddaughter's decision to make. She and her children will arrive on the charter plane tomorrow morning."

"Is there some way, any way at all, that I could be around to see them?" Auclaire pleaded. "I have to know what she looks like, whether I can see any of myself or Lydia in her or her children. I never got to see my son after what I did. I want this chance to see my granddaughter and great-grandchildren. It'll be the only one I have."

Roarke smiled. "I am sure Cindy will be more than glad to show them this very photo of you, Mr. Auclaire, so that they can see as well what you look like. However, I'd advise against your attempting to speak to any of them."

Cindy giggled, and Auclaire grinned reluctantly. "I guess you have a point, no matter how much I hate the restriction. But if I can't speak directly to them, then maybe you'd do me another undeserved favor, Mr. Roarke, and deliver a message to them for me."


	3. Chapter 3

§ § § -- December 4, 2005

At about ten on Sunday morning, Leslie parked a rover at the clearing near the plane dock and got out of the car to wait for the incoming charter. She could already hear the drone of its engine in the distance, and sauntered across the clearing to talk with the waiting attendants and the two young men who would be bringing the Irelands' luggage to the rover. They asked about Christian and the children, and she had them laughing after a few minutes with an anecdote about something silly Tobias had done.

It helped relax her, which was just as well; for when, ten minutes later, Melody Hollister Ireland and her two children stepped out of the hatch and peered distrustfully around them, Leslie realized immediately that this woman was not going to be an easy sell. Once the passengers had begun disembarking, Leslie had moved back down to the grass at the bottom of the landing ramp, to give them room; so she was waiting quietly there when the threesome came abreast of her, with the two attendants behind them toting suitcases. "Mrs. Ireland?" she said politely, with a smile. "I'm Leslie Enstad, welcome to Fantasy Island."

Melody Ireland nodded faintly, staring at her. "Aren't you Mr. Roarke's daughter?"

Leslie nodded, but before she could speak, the little girl piped up, "Mommy, she's a real live princess! I _told_ you if we wish real hard, we could meet a princess."

Leslie grinned at her. "You must be Hannah! It's nice to meet you."

Hannah Ireland beamed at her, clutching a Barbie doll dressed in a gown of sparkly cotton-candy pink and sporting a bejeweled tiara that would have greatly amused Christian. "Hi! Can I call you Princess Leslie?"

"Sure," Leslie said, willing just this once to bear the label of royalty for the child's sake. "How old are you, Hannah?"

"I'm eight," said Hannah. "This is my big brother Nathan, he's twelve." She bounced on her feet while Nathan's attention wandered to the surrounding scenery, Melody stared uncomfortably between her daughter and Leslie, and the attendants loaded the Irelands' bags into the back of the rover. "Is it okay if I see your castle? The one where you live with Prince Christian?"

Leslie giggled. "We just live in a regular house here on the island. I'll bet you and your mom and brother are pretty hungry by now."

Melody Ireland cleared her throat. "Well, I'm not hungry at the moment—we had breakfast at the airport in Honolulu. Nathan probably is, though. He never turns down food." For the first time she smiled; her thin, pinched features, crisscrossed with worry lines and a little too pale, suddenly looked several years younger. She had fine, frizzy dark hair cut short and tired brown eyes that glinted with wariness. She was a couple of inches or so shorter than Leslie and stood her ground with an unconsciously defiant stance, a sort of _you can't take this away from me_ demeanor.

Leslie smiled back. "Well, we have plenty, and Nathan can help himself. Why don't you come with me—I'll take you to a bungalow and you can rest and unpack. I'll come back in about an hour and a half so you can all have lunch with us at the main house."

She saw the momentary widening of Melody's eyes, the briefly clenched jaw, before the woman drew herself up straight and said with dignity, "I hope you don't mind if we come casual, Your Highness."

"Dress comfortably," Leslie said, "we don't stand on ceremony around here. Please, call me Leslie, or Mrs. Enstad if that's more comfortable for you."

Melody only shrugged. "Come on, Nathan, Hannah, we're going to our cottage."

Only Hannah was willing to talk on the way to the bungalow, asking Leslie all kinds of excited questions about what it was like to be a princess. Melody didn't say anything, but Leslie had the sense that she wanted to shush the little girl. Nathan still didn't speak, merely looked around him, taking everything in.

Leslie showed the three into the bungalow, pointed out the sofa bed where Nathan or Hannah could sleep, and repeated her offer of lunch at the main house. For the first time Melody's defiance got the better of her manners. "Suppose we decide not to come?"

Leslie studied her for a moment. "Well," she said after considering her reply, "that's up to you, of course. But the idea here is for my father to explain to you why he brought you here, and I assumed you'd be wondering. If I'm wrong, then tell me so."

Melody flushed. "I'm sorry, Your…Mrs. Enstad. It's only that…" She paused, frowned, glanced at her children who were both exploring the bungalow. "It's been very difficult for me the last couple of years."

Leslie nodded. "I understand." She drew in a breath and met Melody's gaze. "Anyway, the offer of lunch is still open, and as I said, we don't stand on ceremony around here, so don't feel as if you're obligated to dress up. Come as you are if you want." She smiled. "I've got to get back. Excuse me?" Melody nodded, and Leslie left with a sense of relief that bothered her. Melody Ireland was prickly—understandably so, she knew, but the woman's attitude bothered her. _Wait'll Mr. Auclaire finds out,_ she thought.

Christian was a few minutes early and helped Leslie settle triplets into high chairs. "I see the table's been enlarged," he remarked.

"We're expecting guests," Leslie said and explained about the Irelands. "You'll get some hero-worship from Hannah, I think, but Nathan hasn't said a thing since he stepped foot on this island, and their mother's hackles are easily raised. She's really had it rough."

Christian nodded a couple of times. "It'll be interesting to see what sort of reaction they have to the news that they're Kenneth Auclaire's heirs."

Just as Roarke was taking his own seat at the table, the Irelands appeared at the end of the veranda and hesitantly crossed. Roarke arose and smiled. "Welcome, Mrs. Ireland, children. Please sit where you like."

Nathan took the closest empty chair without saying anything; Melody glanced nervously at the wide-eyed triplets in their high chairs before attempting to edge around them to reach another chair. Hannah, though, lit up when she recognized Christian and the children. "Wow," she breathed and performed a surprisingly correct curtsy at him. "You're the first real live prince I ever met, Your Highness! Look, this is my princess doll!" She displayed the pink-clad, tiara-adorned Barbie at Christian.

Christian jutted his head forward a little as if trying to get a better look, and grinned. "Yes, she looks like a princess all right," he agreed humorously. "You curtsy very well, Hannah. Would you like to sit next to your mother? I'll change chairs if you would."

Melody, whose seat was next to Christian's usual chair, cleared her throat. "You don't have to move, Your Highness," she said. "Not if that's your place." Leslie could see instantly that Christian made her nervous, and thus she was more deferential to him. _Probably because he's born royalty and I merely married into it,_ she reflected with an inward smile.

"Don't fret over it, Mrs. Ireland," Christian replied with a smile. "It's no trouble at all. In any case, either Leslie or I will be up and down fairly frequently tending to our own children, so it doesn't matter much."

"I'd rather sit here," Hannah announced then, claiming the empty chair at Leslie's right and her brother's left. "I wanna talk to the prince and princess."

Melody turned red. "Hannah, you and your brother haven't even said hello to our host," she reprimanded.

Nathan gave a mere nod; Hannah blinked and looked at Roarke as if he'd just landed from the moon. "I didn't see you," she said. "Hi."

"Hello, Hannah," Roarke replied, smiling. "Well, if you are ready, Mariki will be out in just a moment. I've called Cindy from her bungalow as well, so she should be arriving soon herself."

"Isn't she eating with us?" Leslie asked.

"She had an early lunch at the pond restaurant with her family," Roarke said, "but she'll be here in time for dessert. That will give us a chance to fill Mrs. Ireland in on the reason I brought her here." He glanced at the children, who were avidly watching Mariki coming out with the laden serving cart, and then looked at Melody. "Mrs. Ireland, would you prefer that I tell you here, now, or wait until the children are otherwise occupied?"

Melody frowned at him. "What concerns me concerns my kids," she said flatly. "You're the one who brought us all the way out here, Mr. Roarke, and I'm still waiting for the other shoe to fall." At his puzzled look, she sighed and added grudgingly, "You have to understand, after what we've been through, I don't trust anybody, and I don't think Nathan does either. Hannah lives in a fantasy world, and I think that's the only thing that keeps her from closing everyone off."

"I see," said Roarke, in a tone that suggested he didn't quite.

Melody sighed again, looking resigned, as if she wished she didn't have to spill every secret she had to this man. "After my husband walked out two years ago, I couldn't support us. I tried to sell our house, but the bank foreclosed on it before any buyers were interested enough. Brad pays absolutely no child support and never sees the kids; in fact, he disappeared after he left, and we haven't heard from him since then and don't know where he is. We've been living in assorted homeless shelters for the last eighteen months. I was never on good terms with Brad's parents, both of mine are dead, and…" She shrugged. "In any case, I've been waitressing ever since Brad left. I make just enough to pay the fees on the storage unit where we have our things, and to buy the kids clothes for school. Nobody's ever done any more for us than they absolutely had to. And now, out of the blue, here's this invitation to Fantasy Island, complete with plane tickets. Looks pretty fishy to me. What's going on here, anyway?"

Leslie and Christian, who both knew the story, were busy attending to the triplets, and Hannah was neglecting her own lunch and eagerly helping them. But Nathan, Roarke saw, was listening intently, although he tried to appear not to be, steadily scarfing down his food while he and Melody spoke. After a moment Roarke inquired, "Tell me, Mrs. Ireland, what do you know about your family history? Specifically your father's?"

She got a very wary look about her and stared suspiciously at him for a good ten seconds before replying curtly, "My father died when I was two years old—killed in Vietnam. I don't remember him at all."

Roarke nodded. "I understand that…but do you know anything about him?"

"What's this got to do with why we're here?" Melody demanded.

"A great deal, Mrs. Ireland. In fact, it's the entire reason I brought you here in the first place. Please, if you will merely humor me…"

Melody contemplated her still-empty lunch plate and scowled at it, as if trying to decide whether all this was worth it. It was then that Nathan spoke for the first time, surprising everyone, including his mother. "Mom told us once," he said. "It was when my dad left and the bank came around and took our house. She was really mad—said there was no way we were going to live with my grandparents. But I knew we shoulda had two sets of grandparents, so I asked about Mom's mom and Dad. And she said they're both dead." He peered at Roarke with a hopeful look in his eye. "Mom doesn't like to talk about it, she said they both died when she was a kid. But I know her dad's name was Dennis Hollister and that he got adopted when he was a baby. That's what she told us."

Roarke nodded. "Is that all she knows?" he asked.

"Yeah, I think so," said Nathan and took a bite out of a soft dinner roll. "Boy, this food is really awesome. Tastes a lot better than it does at the shelter we're at now."

Roarke smiled and said, "I'm pleased you're enjoying it. Thank you, Nathan. Well, Mrs. Ireland…" He waited till Melody had looked up at him again, then said gently, "I have brought you and the children here because you three are the sole living heirs of the late actor Kenneth Auclaire. Dennis Hollister was his son, his only child."

Melody looked blank. "I never heard of Kenneth Auclaire."

By this time Christian and Leslie had finished tending to the triplets and were tuning into the conversation again; Hannah, fascinated by the three toddlers, was watching them eat while absently forking food into her own mouth. Leslie explained, "He was a pretty successful actor in the forties and fifties, and did a good bit of TV in the fifties and sixties. He retired in the seventies and died just a couple of weeks ago or so. He was ninety."

Melody shrugged, still looking blank, but there was a flicker of interest in her eyes. "Hmm. So, this guy was my father's biological dad, huh?"

"Indeed he was," Roarke said. "He left a fairly substantial estate upon his death; he was a widower, and had no survivors other than you and your children. It was his wish that his son be tracked down and left all his possessions; or, failing that, any descendants of his son. Therefore, you and your children are now the owners of Kenneth Auclaire's California home, as well as any other assets in his possession at the time of his decease."

Melody sat there staring at him, her lower jaw loose and her eyes filled with a mixture of hope and disbelief. Finally she uttered, "Just like that."

Roarke said, "Well, of course, there are the standard procedures for proof of relationship, but I have contacted the executor of Mr. Auclaire's will, his attorney in Los Angeles, and he has agreed to abide by whatever wishes your grandfather has set out." He didn't bother to mention that the lawyer had been extremely difficult to convince in the matter of who was to inherit the estate, and had given in only on the strength of Roarke's reputation. There were times, Roarke had reflected, when being famous could be an asset after all.

"Mom," Nathan spoke up excitedly, "we could get out of that shelter finally."

Melody's stare shifted to her son and she blinked a few times before his words seemed to sink in. "Well, there's that," she mumbled, oddly grudgingly.

Christian slid a sidelong glance in Melody's direction, clearly at a loss as to why she wasn't leaping for joy at the news. His wife put it in words: "This sounds like the answer to all your problems, Mrs. Ireland. What's the matter?"

Melody then turned her stare on Leslie, and this time it was filled with incredulity. "Are you kidding? There's gotta be a catch. This kind of stuff happens only if you win the lottery, and I don't have the money to waste playing the lottery in the first place. Me, with all my troubles, all of a sudden discovering I'm the granddaughter of some Hollywood star who's decided to leave me his entire estate? Something's fishy here, Mrs. Enstad. Nothing ever comes without some kind of price—that's one thing I learned a very long time ago. I want to know what I have to do in order to claim this, and when I find out, then I'll decide if this windfall really is the solution to all my problems."

Leslie shrugged slightly and made an expression that said, _Whatever you say,_ before returning to her lunch and keeping an eye on the triplets' progress. Roarke regarded Melody thoughtfully. "Why don't we continue this discussion after lunch."

"Fine with me," Melody agreed coolly and turned her attention to her plate. That was the last of the conversation, till Mariki came out to clear everyone's place settings and the leftovers and to offer dessert. Just as she made the suggestion, Cindy arrived, carrying the framed photo as she'd been doing all weekend.

"Hi, Mr. Roarke, Leslie," she called. "I hope I'm not late."

"You're right on time," Roarke said with a smile, as he and Christian rose to their feet. Cindy bobbed Christian a quick curtsy that he smilingly shrugged off, then focused on Melody when she saw Roarke indicate her. "Cindy Grainger, meet Melody Ireland and her two children, Nathan and Hannah."

"Hello, Ms. Ireland," said Cindy with a friendly nod. "So you're Kenneth Auclaire's granddaughter."

"So I'm told," Melody said guardedly, studying Cindy with renewed suspicion. "What do you have to do with this?"

Christian, who had remained standing, cleared his throat. "Cindy," he suggested, "why don't you take my chair. Once my son finishes his lunch, I have to take him into town for a haircut, so I won't be here much longer."

"Don't be in a hurry," said Cindy. "I've been sitting around correcting test papers all morning and I don't mind standing. But…" She cast a slightly nervous glance at Hannah and Nathan. "Maybe this is something best discussed among the adults."

Melody shook her head and said again, "What concerns me concerns my kids. Their father doesn't give a damn about them, so I'm all they've got. They deserve to know what's going to happen to us next."

Cindy regarded Hannah, whose attention was still fixed on Karina, the triplet nearest to her. "I see," was all she said, and she caught Leslie's eye. Leslie quirked a wry half-smile, and Cindy huffed softly in the same vein. "Well then, excuse me, Christian, sorry." Christian chuckled and squeezed up to Tobias' high chair to allow Cindy past.

Cindy took Christian's vacated chair and turned it a little to face Melody. "I presume Mr. Roarke's told you the story of your grandfather."

Melody nodded, her face guarded but otherwise expressionless. "Yeah, I know all about how he gave my father up for adoption."

"He came to regret it," said Cindy gently. "Deeply. He just didn't know how to go about tracking down your father. He's doing the only thing he can now."

"Well, I'm sure that…" Melody broke off then and peered at Cindy with narrowed eyes. "Wait a minute. You just said 'he's doing the only thing he can'—present tense. I thought he was dead."

Cindy caught herself up short and stared frantically at Roarke, who smiled. "If anyone would like dessert," he said, casting a quick glance at Mariki who had stood patiently aside, waiting with her serving cart, "I suggest we have that first, and then perhaps the children would be interested in a swim at our pool."

Nathan beat his prickly mother to the punch. "That sounds great, Mr. Roarke," he said with sudden and surprising enthusiasm. "I used to swim all the time, but we never get to do it now. Can I skip dessert and go right now?"

"Of course, if you wish," said Roarke warmly. Nathan beamed and jumped out of his chair, taking off at a run across the porch.

Leslie watched him go, grinning, then looked to Hannah. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the pool or anything like that?"

Hannah shook her head, then caught sight of Christian, just lifting Tobias out of the high chair. "Gosh, Your Highness, do you have to go?"

Christian paused to grin quizzically at her. "Well, Tobias here needs a haircut," he said. "I'm afraid we'll have to hurry to make our appointment."

"Is it okay if I go too?" Hannah begged. "I want to hear all about your castle and what a prince does all the time. Please."

Looking surprised and greatly amused, Christian looked at Leslie and inquired in a joking tone, "Are you sure you won't be jealous of my little admirer, my Rose?"

Leslie laughed. "Oh, maybe a little." Christian laughed too, and she turned her grin on Hannah. "If Christian doesn't mind your tagging along, it's okay with me if you go. Maybe you can tell him what you know about royalty."

Hannah was radiant. "Wow, thanks, Princess Leslie!" She climbed eagerly out of her chair and joined Christian and Tobias, taking one of Tobias' hands while Christian wrapped his around the other. "Thanks, Prince Christian. This'll be fun…I never got to meet a real live prince and princess before. And stuck-up Molly and Taylor and Abby at school will be so totally jealous of me. And wait'll I tell my best friend Mackenzie…" Her voice trailed off as Christian started off the porch, with Hannah chattering excitedly and Tobias ambling happily along between them.

Leslie giggled. "Well, there's one of the happiest campers I've seen in a long time. If you don't mind, Father, I'll get Susanna and Karina upstairs with Haruko, and then I'll come back and join you." Roarke nodded, and she added to Mariki, "If you've got cheesecake, I'll take a slice of that."

When she came back, sans daughters, a few minutes later, Mariki was gone, the cheesecake was waiting for her at her place, and Roarke, Cindy and Melody were sitting in silence. Roarke seemed quite at ease, but Cindy and Melody were clearly stiff and uncomfortable. Roarke smiled when Leslie sat down. "I believe we can begin now," he said.

Cindy hesitated before she started to speak, and Melody eyed her. "I bet this is gonna be some story," she said unexpectedly.

"Why do you say that?" Cindy asked, caught off guard.

"It's Fantasy Island. All kinds of impossible things are supposed to happen here, right? So I bet this one's a real doozy. Let's hear it."

Roarke regarded her. "You sound as if you're prepared not to believe what you're about to hear, Mrs. Ireland," he said.

Melody's jaw set and she glared at him. "I've seen way too much reality to believe in fantasy anymore," she said. "My daughter'll be more likely to believe all this than I am. I still think there's a catch to this. But go ahead, I want to find out what crazy story is behind this free trip."

"Okay, Mrs. Ireland," said Cindy, with remarkable composure, and proceeded to explain to Melody how Kenneth Auclaire had been communicating with her via his photograph in the weeks since his death. Leslie absently ate her cheesecake, watching Melody's face go slacker and slacker with disbelief; after a few minutes a glint of sardonic amusement winked on in her eyes. Roarke obviously saw it too; he caught Leslie's eye and smiled faintly at her, and she gave him a wry look in response.

When Cindy finished, Melody sat in silence for a few seconds; then she shook her head and began to laugh. "That," she said, "has to be the most ridiculous tale I've ever heard in all my life. A talking picture. Sounds like something J.K. Rowling dreamed up—those talking paintings, isn't it? And here I always thought Harry Potter and his wizard pals were pure fiction." She turned to Roarke. "Well, it's a nice story, very imaginative, certainly original. But I'm not buying it."

"Indeed," Roarke said, with a particular look.

Melody looked almost apologetic for a moment. "Look, it was nice of you to track me down and bring me here, so I could find out about this alleged inheritance I've got, but you didn't have to go to that kind of length. All you had to do was tell me about the thing and I'd have been glad to come out. Now look, never mind this spirit-talking-through-a-picture bit. Just tell me how to get ahold of the guy's lawyer and we can work it out between us—we don't need any middleman."

Cindy looked upset. "Mrs. Ireland, there's a spirit involved here—one who can't find his rest till he's sure he knows he's done the right thing. Don't you have any compassion for the situation?"

"I would if it didn't sound so freaking absurd," Melody said, rolling her eyes. "If you don't mind, Mr. Roarke, just give me the lawyer's number and I'll call him myself. If this whole thing is legitimate, then great—when the kids and I move into the house, I'll call up a tabloid and sell my story to them."

Roarke frowned, and Cindy and Leslie looked at each other. "What story?" Cindy wanted to know, sounding wary and worried.

"The story of Kenneth Auclaire's sordid secret, of course," Melody said with a self-satisfied smile. "How he callously and willingly gave up his own son—his only child, if your information's right—to let strangers raise him, and never again bothered to try to find him and apologize. How he lived his high-and-mighty Hollywood-star life, rich and famous, while my father struggled to make a living and then went out and got blown away in Vietnam, leaving behind a widow and a little girl. How my mother died when I was nine and I wound up being raised in a series of foster homes, and how I could've had a much better life if this self-absorbed grandfather of mine had really been sorry enough about giving up his son to start looking for me." She nodded firmly. "Yep, that's what I'll do. I'm sure there'll be hellish inheritance taxes to pay, and selling this thing to a tabloid should get me big enough bucks that I ought to be able to cover it just fine." With that, she pushed back her chair and got up. "Thanks for lunch…and for the financial rescue, Mr. Roarke. Excuse me."

Speechless, the trio at the table watched her head across the porch with purposeful steps, looking as though she were on a mission. Then Cindy sagged in her chair and closed her eyes, still clutching the photo of Kenneth Auclaire. "Oh, Mr. Roarke…" she moaned in a pleading voice.

"She's a cold one all right," Leslie said softly. "After what she's been through, I guess I can't blame her too much, but that's some way of showing your gratitude."

Roarke, still gazing after Melody Ireland, sighed softly. "There is very little we can do about her attitude," he said quietly. "The inheritance is hers, and she can do as she sees fit."

"But it's so…it's cold, it's callous," Cindy cried plaintively. "It's so disrespectful. Mr. Auclaire's just trying to do the right thing, and this is what he gets for it!"

Suddenly a new voice broke in: "Calm down, Cindy. Don't be so outraged."

"Mr. Auclaire?" Cindy exclaimed, sounding on the verge of tears. Leslie had sat up straight in her chair, eyes enormous and fixed on the photo; the way Cindy was holding the frame, she could just see the image of Kenneth Auclaire moving within it, and was transfixed with sheer amazement.

"I heard everything," Auclaire said, his voice heavy and slow with regret. "And I have to tell you, I really can't blame the young lady for her intentions. Do you mind if I talk to Mr. Roarke for a bit?" Cindy placed the frame on the table so that Roarke could see Auclaire's image, then fell back in her chair, brushing away tears.

"I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Auclaire," said Roarke sympathetically.

"It's my own fault," Auclaire replied with a sigh. "If she wants to smear my name in the tabloids for money, that's her privilege, I guess. I was going to tell you to give her that message I had you write out for me, but I can see that won't do any good. I'm going to have to go for broke here. Will you help me, Mr. Roarke?"

* * *

**A/N:** _Posted April 23, 2009…this would've been Hervé Villechaize's 66__th__ birthday. Happy birthday, m'sieur!_


	4. Chapter 4

§ § § -- December 4, 2005

Melody Ireland hung up the telephone in her bungalow with a sense of accomplishment and, for the first time in many months, relief. The inheritance was the real deal, and the estate came with a house in the Hollywood hills, two cars, and a healthy bank account. It might just be enough for her and the kids to live on so she could go back to school to become a nurse, as she had once dreamed of doing, before her mother died and all her dreams were ruthlessly destroyed.

However, she was too inherently cautious to leave the situation as it stood. Just to be sure there would be enough money to tide them over, she intended to shop her biological grandfather's story around the tabloids, then sell it to the highest bidder. _He deserves it,_ she thought, scowling at the memory of the story Cindy Grainger had told her. _After what he did to my father—an innocent baby—and all because his dumb wife was too vain to have herself cut open for the birth!_ She snorted in disgust and arose to change into a swimsuit. Now that hers and her children's futures were secure, she wanted a chance to relax beside the pool and devour a good potboiler of a novel, something she hadn't had the time or inclination to do for a long while now. She could call the tabloids later.

She wished her mother could have been around to see what had happened—for that matter, both her parents. For the first time since her mother had told her why she didn't have a father, when she was about five, she wondered what Dennis Hollister had been like. Who had he been? He obviously knew he was adopted, or else she herself wouldn't know; but what had he felt about it? Had he ever dreamed of finding his biological parents someday and confronting them? Had he wondered who they might have been? She paused in the middle of the bedroom as she was tugging on her suit, letting her mind wander. Maybe spirits did go someplace after they died—at least for a little while, if that picture of Cindy Grainger's really did move and talk…

Melody snorted again. Stuff and nonsense, as her mother used to like to say. But she still wondered about her father, and found herself annoyed by that, because there was no way she could ever find out. Oh, presumably she could ask Roarke, but what on earth would he know about her father, powers or no powers? She angrily shook off the daydreams and finished dressing. This Fantasy Island really seemed to distort one's thinking, and all she wanted to do was bask in the immense relief this inheritance had brought her and let herself relax and enjoy life for once. She stalked determinedly out of the bungalow, tote bag and book in hand, forcing her mind to focus solely on her quiet afternoon.

‡ ‡ ‡

Cindy was so angry she was shaking. "I don't care if she's his granddaughter or not," she was fuming, pacing the floor in the study while Roarke, Leslie, and Auclaire in his frame watched her. "That's just plain cold. Cold and cruel."

"If it were within my power, young lady," Auclaire remarked, "I'd adopt you and hand over everything to you." He grinned as he said this, though, and Roarke and Leslie laughed. By now Leslie was used to this talking picture, and Auclaire had been introduced to her, so that they knew each other. "But you know I have to do this," Auclaire went on, sobering. "I really believe it's the only possibility for getting through to her."

"From what I can see, it'll be a wasted effort," Cindy protested heatedly. "She doesn't appreciate this gift at all. All she can do is pity herself for her divorce and her financial troubles, and for the fact that her father was adopted. She blames everyone but herself."

"Cindy, Mrs. Ireland isn't entirely to blame for her own problems," Roarke pointed out gently. "She wasn't responsible for her father's adoption or death in Vietnam, nor her mother's passing, or her stays in various foster homes."

"That's all very fine and good," Cindy retorted, "but instead of rising above it, she just wallows in self-pity and then bites the hand that feeds her."

"That's her prerogative," Leslie said with a glance at Auclaire. "Like it or not."

Cindy stopped dead in the middle of the room and glared at her and Roarke. "Whose side are you two on, anyway?" she demanded incredulously. "Say whatever you want, any way you cut it, Melody Ireland's actions and intentions are ruthless and self-serving!"

Roarke suggested pointedly, "Suppose you put yourself in Mrs. Ireland's position for a moment, Cindy. Surely you aren't going to tell me you wouldn't have been tempted to take the money and run, as it were. I might remind you that you were very angry in the wake of your parents' deaths in that airplane crash all those years ago, and I seem to recall you vowed whatever revenge you might be granted against the ultimate cause of the crash."

"That's normal, Mr. Roarke," Cindy told him. "I'm sure Leslie was no less angry about the circumstances of her parents' and sisters' deaths. But neither of us let our lives go to pot and then stabbed our benefactors in the back."

Auclaire laughed unexpectedly from the picture frame. "You're full of clichés today, Cindy. A little strange for an English teacher, don't you think?"

Cindy sighed loudly and muttered, "I teach literature, yes, but not creative writing." They all laughed, and she perked up a little, letting a reluctant smile break out. "Okay, okay. I'll try to back down, but brother, that woman's attitude really rubbed me the…" She stopped and rolled her eyes, to more laughter. "Oh, you know what I mean."

Chuckling, Roarke resettled himself in his chair. "Yes, we do, Cindy," he assured her. "However, if we might return to the discussion at hand: Mr. Auclaire has asked if you will take him, or more correctly his frame, to Mrs. Ireland's bungalow so that he may address her directly. And since this is his fantasy, and since I am obligated to grant it, I feel this is the best, perhaps the only, solution."

Cindy folded her arms over her chest. "Huh. I'm afraid to. She might dismantle the frame and take out the picture and rip it to bits."

Playfully Leslie _tsk_ed at her. "Suspicious, aren't we?"

"Can you blame me?" Cindy wanted to know.

Leslie laughed. "No, I don't, not really. I guess the point Father and I are trying to make is that we can see both sides. Not that we condone Mrs. Ireland's attitude, you understand. It's just that we can see where she's coming from on this. Look, if you really don't like the idea of leaving your picture with her, just warn her that she'd better give it back intact and unharmed, or you'll retaliate."

"Yeah, I can just see me filing some stupid frivolous lawsuit," Cindy said with amused sarcasm. "Oh, all right. I guess we've talked this over long enough." She peered at Auclaire's image in the frame. "Are you sure you're okay with this? She's a tough cookie, you heard her yourself at lunch."

"True, very true, but if I don't do this, who knows what'll happen to me. And for that matter, who knows what'll happen to my granddaughter and her children. If she's allowed to go ahead and sell my shame to some filthy tabloid, there's no telling what the fallout will be. Even if she goes ahead and does it, I'm not the one I'm worried about. I'm dead, how can anything like that hurt me? But there could be consequences Melody never intended, and her kids in particular could be badly hurt. Plus, I'm sure her scumbag of an ex-husband, the one who doesn't care about his kids, will see a fantastic opportunity to get rich quick and come around looking for a way to bilk her out of that inheritance I'm trying to give her."

"Trying, nothing," Cindy snorted. "She took it all too readily, I notice."

"Cindy," Roarke said in gentle admonishment.

Cindy threw her hands in the air. "I give up. All right, Mr. Auclaire, if that's what you want, then I'll take you over there and leave you to Melody Ireland's tender mercies." She picked up the frame and cast a rueful glance over her shoulder at Roarke and Leslie on her way out, but said nothing further.

Leslie grinned when the door closed behind her. "I'd love to see the look on Melody Ireland's face when Kenneth Auclaire's picture starts talking to her. So much for the Harry Potter talking-painting scoff."

"Indeed," Roarke concurred, chuckling, and just then Christian came into the study through the French doors, leading Tobias by the hand. "Hello, Christian. You seem to be missing part of your entourage."

"Oh, Hannah Ireland? She asked me to drop her off at the pool so she could join her brother. Apparently she ran out of questions to ask me about the art of being a prince." Christian grinned and swung Tobias into his arms when the little boy yawned. "Someone's ready for his nap, I think."

Leslie got up and joined her husband and son near the stairs. "Looks like it to me too. Haruko's still upstairs with the girls, want to come up with me?"

"Of course," Christian said, grinning at her. Roarke smiled after them as they took their son upstairs, where Haruko was sitting on the futon in the spare room feverishly filling a sheet of notebook paper with her loopy script.

She looked up when they came in. "Oh, hi, Mr. and Mrs. Enstad…I'm just trying to finish that story for Mrs. Grainger's class. The girls fell asleep in no time flat."

Leslie grinned. "All that running around they did in the yard with you this morning knocked 'em out, I'm sure. Have they been hindering the progress of your assignment?"

"No, not really," said Haruko. "Actually, it was a good thing, because it gave me some time to think about what I wanted to write next. But I was wondering…Miss Leslie, does Mr. Roarke have any of that white correctional paint? I still keep messing up and writing 'all right' as one word, and I know Mrs. Grainger absolutely hates that."

Christian joined in Leslie's laughter this time, and she promised, "I'll see what I can do. You know, I really have to wonder why people think 'all right' is one word."

"Well," Christian offered, "you could do what I so often did while I was learning how to write fluently in English, when I was around nine or ten years old. My tutor was as up in arms as Cindy is about 'alright', the wrong version, and she set out to make certain I never fell into that trap. Mind you, she had to try several different methods. At first she asked me if I would write such crazy constructions as A-L-D-O-N-E or A-L-C-L-E-A-R. I said no, they looked ridiculous, and she pounced. 'Aha,' she yelled, 'so how can A-L-R-I-G-H-T _not_ look ridiculous?' To which I parried, 'Then how do you explain A-L-R-E-A-D-Y vs. A-L-L, space, R-E-A-D-Y, and A-L-T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R vs. A-L-L, space, T-O-G-E-T-H-E-R?' I thought I had her there, but she simply shot back that these pairs had completely different meanings from each other, so they didn't count."

"That sounds like something you'd do," Leslie remarked, amused. "So then what?"

"I was confused," Christian said, "and unfortunately I continued to use the incorrect spelling of 'all right'. Even you native speakers have to agree that English must be the most confusing language on the planet. But yes, eventually my tutor cured me. She simply put up a handmade poster on the wall which stated, ALRIGHT IS ALWRONG—like this." He borrowed Haruko's pen for a moment and wrote it out across a small sticky note she had attached to her grammar text. "That second construction looked thoroughly silly to me, and I learned to equate the first one with it, so that they both looked silly in time." He grinned at a wide-eyed Haruko. "So if you need some sort of mnemonic to keep things straight, perhaps that would work for you."

Haruko reread Christian's tidy printing. "Wow, that's a great idea. That might work. If it does, I'll tell Mrs. Grainger. Thanks, Mr. Enstad!"

"Glad I could help," said Christian. "All right, then, son of mine, let's get you comfortable so you can sleep for a while." He settled Tobias down atop the low foam fold-out chair that could also be used as a sleeper, which served all three triplets just fine now that they'd long since outgrown the bassinets they'd napped in as infants. Leslie had seen it in a shop in the mall near the Coral Island military base, and pointed out that it was perfect for the children to nap on at the main house, since even if they happened to fall out of bed in their sleep, it was low to the floor and they wouldn't be hurt.

"Tell me something," Leslie said as they left the room. "Was that a true story, or did you just make it up on the fly to help Haruko?"

Christian pretended to look insulted. "It really happened, thank you very much—do you think I'm in the habit of producing spur-of-the-moment fairy tales? It simply happened to come in handy for the situation."

"I'd say so," Leslie agreed, chuckling. "I bet Cindy'd love to hear that story. I'm a little surprised that your tutor made such a point of it, though. Most wouldn't."

Christian shrugged. "I didn't have any reason to think about it till some months later, when she berated Anna-Laura for playing 'Pinball Wizard' too loudly on the radio during one of our shared classes. Which was when I began to think she cracked down on me about A-L-R-I-G-H-T merely because she didn't like the Who." They both laughed, descending the steps together. Roarke looked up, smiling automatically, a curious expression on his handsome features.

"A private joke?" he inquired.

Christian chuckled and explained what had happened upstairs. "And speaking, at least in passing, of Cindy…since she isn't here, I must presume she's gone to leave that photo of hers with Melody Ireland."

"She did," Leslie said, "right before you got back here with Tobias. She was pretty mad at Mrs. Ireland, too. All we can do is hope for the best."

‡ ‡ ‡

Melody had just returned from the pool to retrieve a forgotten bottle of sunscreen when there came a knock on the door of her bungalow. "Who's there?" she yelled, thinking it might be Roarke for some reason.

"Cindy Grainger," she was surprised to hear. "May I come in?"

Prepared to argue Cindy away, Melody marched to the door and flung it open. "You can't say anything that'd change my mind," she said before Cindy could do more than take a breath to speak.

"I'm through talking," Cindy replied curtly. Her tone surprised Melody again, as passionate as Cindy had been in taking Kenneth Auclaire's side. "However, there are certain other parties who seem to think all is not quite lost just yet; so I come bearing messages." She thrust a sheet of paper at Melody. "This is in Mr. Roarke's handwriting; he took this message down earlier. And I'm going to leave this with you, so that you can glance at it now and then and remind yourself that these are Mr. Auclaire's own words." Melody accepted the framed autographed picture of her biological grandfather before she realized what she was holding; when she looked up to refuse the offerings, she found herself confronting a cold stare. "If you do anything to ruin that picture, you'll be sorry," Cindy warned her, then retreated without a word of farewell, closing the door after her.

"Geez," Melody muttered aloud, shook her head and gave up. Just for the sake of fairness, she would read the message. _That way nobody can accuse me of not trying to see all sides of it…though I don't know what it'll be worth,_ she thought, and sat down on the sofa, placing the frame on the coffee table facing her. Then she read the message, which explained what Kenneth Auclaire had done when his son was born and how deeply he regretted it, and asked for forgiveness. Melody rolled her eyes when she finished. "Fat chance."

"I'm sorry you feel that way," said a male voice from very close by. Melody jumped violently in her seat and whipped her head back and forth, trying to find the owner of the voice and failing.

"Who's there?" she demanded.

"I'm right in front of you," the voice said, and she peered ahead of her but still saw no one. "Look down…that's it."

Melody found herself staring at the photograph. She could have sworn the man in it had been smiling a moment ago; now he looked serious. She frowned in perplexity, trying to remember what she'd seen upon her initial swift glance at the picture; but then every last wit she owned was blown into outer space when the image in the frame _moved_. Melody let out a screech and flung herself against the back of the sofa. "What the hell…??"

Kenneth Auclaire's smiling face seemed lined with sorrow and rue. "I know, I know. I wouldn't believe it either, if it were happening to me. But I had to take drastic measures. You wouldn't listen to Cindy, or Mr. Roarke, or young Leslie; so maybe you'll listen to me."

"Aren't you supposed to be…well, dead?" Melody asked hesitantly, still so shocked by this surreal experience that her natural wariness and distrust had deserted her.

"Oh, believe me, my dear, I'm definitely dead," Auclaire assured her. "I just look this way because this picture is over thirty years old. I was a pretty nasty sight when I died, I can assure you. I'd been ill for several years and all I wanted to do was follow Trudy into oblivion. But…" He smiled wryly. "I had unfinished business."

Melody had regained some of her composure. "Yeah…like making nice to the granddaughter whose dad you deliberately rejected when he was a baby."

"I have no excuse," Auclaire said starkly. "I was young, very stupid, very foolish. I was madly in love with Lydia—your grandmother. When she died giving birth to your father, I was destroyed. I just couldn't bear to have a reminder of her around me, facing me every day. It was as if he had taken her life. So, fool that I was, I insisted on giving him up."

"Just how young were you?" Melody wanted to know. "Teenager? That, I could see, but it sounds like you were married to Dad's mother, and not too many teenagers get married. So you were obviously old enough to have had better sense."

"I was twenty-five when your father was born," Auclaire said. "Lydia was nearly twenty-two. You know the circumstances of your father's birth—how he kept trying to come out breech and how Lyddie wouldn't hear of a C-section."

"She was an idiot," said Melody flatly.

"An idiot, she was not." Auclaire's face morphed into an icy, angry mask. "Foolish and vain, yes—but not an idiot. I suggest you watch your mouth, young woman."

"Whatever you say…Gramps," Melody drawled insolently.

Auclaire began to look frustrated. "You don't give anyone an inch, do you? Make one mistake and it's all over, as far as you're concerned. Nobody ever gets a second chance with you. Well, that's all very fine and well. I probably don't deserve one. But I understand you're looking forward to seeing my name and reputation dragged through manure once you've sold this little tale to some rag. If you think it's going to hurt me, think again—I'm beyond any harm your attempt at revenge could do me. But before you start adding up your little fortune, think about the harm it could do your children—and you too."

"What harm is there in making some money so I can better my life and my kids' lives?" Melody asked smugly. "Between the estate you're leaving me and the fat check I should get for selling your tale of woe, I'll be on easy street."

"Not everyone believes what the tabloids have to say, my dear," Auclaire said with a knowing little smile. "There are sensible people out there who know to question them. And even the ones who do read this stuff might start to wonder about you. The lady whose life was going down the drain till she discovered her grandfather was a Hollywood actor who'd left her a nice house, a couple of cars, a little money." He shrugged. "But that wasn't good enough for her. No, she needed her pound of flesh too, so she happily traded the story of her grandfather's mistake for money."

"I don't owe you anything!" Melody shouted. "You refused to raise my father, so I don't think of you as my grandfather. If you're looking for someone to make you feel better, to absolve you of your sins, don't come running to me!"

Auclaire fell silent for a long moment; then he shook his head. "Cindy was right," he muttered. "You try to do the right thing, and this is what you get for it. Well, Melody Ireland, have a wonderful life." This came out without a speck of cheer, and the next second the image stilled and returned to its one-dimensional, smiling self.

"I will," Melody yelled at the picture, but there was no response. She glared at it, more words on the tip of her tongue, waiting to be said, if only there were anyone left there to hear them. But nothing happened, and she had to swallow them. Her eyes burned, but she willed them dry by sheer force. _I'm protecting myself and my kids. I have a right!_

Just then the door popped open and Nathan and Hannah came in, still damp from their swim. "Hi, Mommy!" Hannah said cheerfully.

"Hi, Mom, what're you doing? You said you were coming right back," Nathan said, pausing to peer curiously at his mother.

Melody frowned. "I…had a visitor while I was here," she said.

"Yeah? Who was it?" Nathan asked, interest in the subject already waning. "I'm getting hungry. Do they have room service here?"

"Who's that picture of?" Hannah asked then, having come to sit beside Melody and now staring at the photo of Kenneth Auclaire.

"That," Melody said, frost coating her words, "is Kenneth Auclaire. My biological grandfather—the man who gave up my father for adoption."

Nathan forgot about room service and came over to get a look at the picture. "Is that what he looks like?" he asked, leaning over so he could see the image better.

"He looks like a nice man," Hannah remarked, peering with interest at the picture. She studied her mother. "Is that the man who left us his house and everything?"

Melody nodded grudgingly, and Nathan straightened up, wide-eyed. "Does that mean we can get out of Wisconsin?" he asked. "That place is really ours, so that we can have our own house and we won't have to go back to any more shelters?"

"That's exactly right," Melody said with another nod.

Hannah clapped her hands. "I could have my own room and there'd be enough space in it for a castle for my princess doll! And Nathan can have a room, and you can have a room, and there'll be lots of space to play in."

"We'll have to move to California," Nathan reminded her. "You won't get to see Mackenzie anymore, you know."

"Mackenzie could come to visit sometimes, maybe," said Hannah with a shrug. "And I can make new friends in our new school. Gosh, Mommy, that man sure was nice to leave us all his stuff when we needed someplace nice to live!"

"Yeah," Nathan agreed, already beginning to look excited. "There won't be old guys with hair in their ears, snoring their brains out all night long and keeping me awake. We'll have enough money for good clothes instead of hand-me-downs, right? Wow, this'll be great. I can't wait for us to get there."

Melody glanced back and forth between her children. "So you're excited?"

"Yeah!" Nathan and Hannah chorused. Nathan snickered and went on, "Heck, if it's big enough, Hannah's dopey doll could have a whole room of her own, never mind a play castle. Boy, talk about lucky. We were due."

"We certainly were," Melody agreed stridently.

Then Hannah piped up, "Mommy, is this nice man dead, like Mr. Roarke said?"

Surprised, Melody looked at her and nodded, and Nathan said, "Of course he is, doofus, or else we wouldn't be going to live in California. He left us his house in his will."

Hannah sighed and picked up the frame to look more closely at the great-grandfather she would never know. "I wish we could say thank you to him. Mommy, can I talk to Mr. Roarke? Maybe he knows a way I could say thank you to our nice grandpa."

Melody stared at her. "But—" she began and bit her tongue.

"I promise I won't go down any paths I don't know and I won't talk to any strangers, and I…" Hannah began, reciting in a tone that suggested she'd been through all this before.

Melody tried again to explain. "Hannah, that's not a problem here…"

"Oh goody," Hannah exclaimed and leaped to her feet, scooping up the ever-present princess doll. "I won't stay away long, Mommy, I promise." She tore out of the bungalow before Melody could find enough wits to call her back.

Nathan, though, was more savvy. "You're mad at this guy because he gave up your dad for adoption," he said, eyeing his mother.

She blinked, still not quite recovered. "What?"

"Well, heck, Mom. I mean, Kenneth Auclaire didn't _have_ to leave us his house and everything. He could've left it to somebody else that wasn't even related to him. You know, like his agent or something. And then they probably would've sold it for bazillions of dollars they didn't deserve and had no right to. And we'd still be sitting in a homeless shelter and have nothing left except our stuff in storage, and no place to go, and you'd still be working in that stupid diner. But you're just thinking about what he did to your dad."

Melody stared at him, unable to speak now. Nathan picked up the frame and studied the man whose image smiled up at him. "My friend Julian at school's adopted, y'know? He met his birth mom last year, but he said it was the worst experience he ever had. She just said she had good reasons for giving him up and she never wanted to see him again. So he really appreciates his mom and dad that adopted him. And you know, Kenneth Auclaire could've been like that, but he wasn't. He changed his mind later on and he tried to do the right thing. Anyway, he doesn't look like a mean man." He snickered again. "Hannah's got some really wacked-out ideas sometimes, but I think this time she's right on the money, about wanting to thank him for what he did for us." He looked at the frame again, then up at his mother. "Is it okay if I take this back to the lady it belongs to?"

"Yeah," Melody mumbled, beyond any ability to argue now. Nathan headed out with the frame, and she sat there for a long time, going over and over her son's words in her head and wondering where he'd come up with them. At last she gave up and let her burning eyes fill with tears after all. She hadn't cried once since Brad's abandonment, but now she let the quiet sobs come freely.


	5. Chapter 5

§ § § -- December 4, 2005

"Hi, Mr. Roarke!" exclaimed Hannah Ireland the moment she came through the inner-foyer door. She brightened when she saw Christian and Leslie in the chairs in front of the desk, Leslie sorting out the mail and Christian absorbed in a computer magazine. "Hi, Prince Christian and Princess Leslie."

"Hello, Hannah," the threesome chorused, and Roarke smiled, leaning forward over the desk. "What can we do for you?"

Hannah came up to the desk front, between Christian's and Leslie's chairs, and gazed earnestly at Roarke. "I was wondering if you could help me do something."

"If possible, I'll be glad to," Roarke agreed.

The little girl took a deep breath. "Me and Nathan just found Mommy in our bungalow, looking at that lady's picture of the nice man that left us his house. She taught me that when someone does something nice for you, you're s'posed to say thank you. Can you help me say thank you to him, please?"

Christian and Leslie looked at each other, amused and highly interested at the same time. Roarke glanced at them, then smiled at Hannah and assured her, "Mr. Auclaire knows how you feel, and I'm sure he's very glad to know that you're grateful for what he did."

Hannah looked confused. "But…Nathan said if somebody leaves you his house and stuff, it means he's dead. So how can he know how I feel if he's dead?"

Roarke grinned. "The same way you can say 'thank you' to him."

Hannah stilled and stared at him, her eyes blank for a moment, while she processed this; then she giggled. "I guess you're right! But I still wanted to say it to him anyway. Even if he never got to see my grandpa again after he gave him up, it was really nice of him to do that for us. I mean, after all, me and Nathan never got to see our grandpa either, and Mommy doesn't remember him." Hannah's face suddenly became pensive. "I wish our grandpa could know what that nice man did for us."

"I think maybe he knows too, Hannah," said Leslie.

Hannah peered at her. "You think so? I sure hope so. It just doesn't seem right to not thank them anyway."

"That's very true," said Christian, shifting in his chair and smiling at the girl when she turned to him with wide, admiring eyes. "My parents aren't living any longer either, and I've wanted for a long time to thank my mother for some things she did for me. I hoped for years that I'd said thank you to her in time, before she died, but I wasn't so sure. But Mr. Roarke says she knows, and I expect he knows about such things better than anyone else in this world. So I've accepted that and I'm happy with it."

"Mostly," Leslie teased him, and he grinned acknowledgment.

"That's really nice, Prince Christian," Hannah said, beaming. "Well, I guess maybe I better go back before my mom gets worried. Thank you, Mr. Roarke."

"You're welcome, Hannah," Roarke replied with a smile, and the girl skipped out; before anyone could make a comment, Cindy came in through the French shutters, bearing the photo frame. "Ah, hello, Cindy."

Cindy smiled a little. "Hi, Mr. Roarke. You know, the strangest thing just happened. Nathan Ireland brought this back to me. Looking at him, I think I can see some of Mr. Auclaire in his face. Anyway, he said he was glad I'd lent it to his mother, since he got a chance to see what his great-grandfather looked like. And then the strange thing happened—he apologized for his mother's attitude."

"I see," said Roarke, while Christian and Leslie looked at each other.

"Someone," Christian observed slowly, "must have taught those children something good, in the days before their mother found her world overturned. And even in the midst of all they've been through, they remembered it. Nathan's little sister was just in here asking if there were some way she could thank Kenneth Auclaire for what he did for them."

Cindy stared at him in surprise. "Really!" Roarke, Leslie and Christian nodded, and she sighed and seemed to relax where she stood, looking down at the photo in its frame with a wistful smile. "If only it'd rub off on their mother."

"Wait and see, Cindy," Roarke advised with a smile.

It was evening before it did, though. By then Christian had taken the triplets home for the night, and Roarke and Leslie were in the study talking with Lila Murchison, their guest whose fantasy it had been to climb Mount Everest. "It really humbles you, Mr. Roarke," the woman was saying. "The incredible cold, the constant danger, the thin air, the sheer size of the thing. It was just one amazing, amazing experience all the way, and I'm glad you let me do it." She shivered slightly and hugged herself, rubbing her hands briskly up and down her upper arms. "But I have to admit, it sure feels good to be back on this tropical island again. I think I'm gonna take a later plane tomorrow just so I can take some time to let the sun warm me up again."

Roarke laughed. "If you wish, you may certainly do so," he said. "I'm very pleased your fantasy went so well, Ms. Murchison."

"It was fantastic all right," she said and grinned. "Thanks so much, Mr. Roarke and Leslie—good night." Roarke and Leslie responded in chorus and watched her head into the inner foyer, where she pulled open the door and then stopped short in surprise. "Oh, excuse me. I didn't mean to run into you."

"No, you didn't," a woman's voice assured her. "Sorry, I was in the way." Lila Murchison smiled and departed, to be replaced by Melody Ireland. She moved hesitantly into the foyer and stopped at the top of the steps. "Could I come in?"

"Of course, Mrs. Ireland, why don't you sit down," Roarke offered, gesturing at the chair where Christian had been sitting earlier. "How can we help you?"

Melody gingerly settled into the chair and twisted her fingers into knots in her lap, apparently unable to meet Roarke's gaze. She crossed her legs at the ankles and tucked them farther back under the chair, then hunched her shoulders a bit and cleared her throat. At last she took a slow breath and said softly, "I was wrong. I…I've probably never been more wrong in my entire life, and…and it took my own kids to make me realize it."

Neither Roarke nor Leslie spoke, just sat and waited quietly. Melody pulled her fingers apart and reknotted them. "I suppose you saw Hannah this afternoon. She said she was coming over here to ask you to help her thank my…my grandfather for leaving us his estate." Finally she looked skittishly up at Roarke. "Did you?"

"Mr. Auclaire knows," Roarke said in a soft voice.

"Oh." Melody's eyes darted away from his again, lit for a nanosecond on Leslie, and skated off to look around the study. "I…I told you how hard it's been for us the last couple of years. I guess I've had hard knocks all my life—my father dying before I could remember him, my mother dying before I was ten, the foster homes—let me tell you, that was no fun—and my husband turning out to be a selfish cad." She sighed. "I still have wishes about getting his goat, y'know what I mean? In the middle of all my relief about inheriting Kenneth Auclaire's estate, and my plans to sell his story to the tabloids, I had this little hope that Brad would see it, or hear of it somehow, and come out looking for his share of the loot…and I was going to give myself the immense satisfaction of telling him where he could go, same way he told us." This time she hunched her shoulders up as far as they would go and looked at Leslie again, with a rueful little smile that Leslie understood all too well.

"That's only human," she said. "I've had my own revenge wishes."

Melody's smile turned grateful for a second or two before she dropped her gaze again, this time to her tangled fingers. "Can't say I wouldn't be tempted if he did show up. Well, anyway." She breathed in again. "I, uh…I've decided I'm not going to sell my grandfather's tale to the rags after all. It was…it was because of Hannah and Nathan. Hannah wanted to just thank him for the inheritance, and Nathan said I was focusing too hard on his mistake and not the amends he was trying to make. Not in so many words, but that's what he meant anyway. I mean…" When she looked at Roarke again, her eyes glittered in the lamplight, revealing standing tears. "I haven't cried this much since Brad walked out. With the way my life's been, I've turned into a bitter jerk who doesn't know how to properly accept a gift anymore. I was so busy hoping to get something back for everything that's happened to me, I couldn't tell when somebody was trying to be nice. I'm glad it hasn't leached over into my kids. I wouldn't want them growing up like that."

"I'm very, very glad to hear that, Mrs. Ireland," Roarke said, smiling.

Melody inhaled again, this time a little shakily. "I…I've been thinking…instead of letting the gossip rags have the story of just one piece of my grandfather's life…I thought I could write his biography instead. You know? Tell the whole story of his life, not just that little part. It's only…I don't know anything about him, except that he's my dad's biological father, and…I'm gonna need help. And you said that, uh, Mrs. Grainger is a big fan of his."

"Ever since she was a young teenager, yes," said Roarke.

"I realize she might not be too willing after the way I acted around her, but I was wondering anyway. D'you think she'd be willing to help me out? You know, with articles, and research, and whatever memorabilia she might have, and even DVDs of his movies? I was thinking we could e-mail each other, and she can tell me where to get the DVDs, and if she didn't mind, I could borrow her clippings and whatever else she has, and make copies, and send her back the originals…"

"Actually," said Leslie with a grin, "I think Cindy'd be thrilled to help you. Something tells me she knows as much about your grandfather as anybody—more, maybe, who knows? There's nobody like a devoted fan to help you flesh out a biography."

"Yeah, I bet you're right," Melody said and chuckled a little weakly. "I suppose it wouldn't sell for the kind of big bucks a tabloid might've given me, but on the other hand, I think my conscience would be a lot happier with me if I go that route."

They all laughed. "I'm sure you're right," Roarke agreed warmly. "It's still early. If you like, I'll call Cindy at her bungalow and ask her to come over here, so that you can explain to her what your plans are."

Melody cleared her throat again and shook her head as he reached for the phone receiver. "Um…actually, Mr. Roarke, I think it might be better if I just go over to her bungalow myself. I, uh, I want her to see that I'm doing this on my own—of my own volition, you know—instead of having you and Mrs. Enstad here. She might think you tried to influence my decision. I want her to know I changed my own mind."

Roarke smiled. "I believe that would go a long way towards convincing her. She is in the Lotus Bungalow."

Melody stood up. "Great, thanks, Mr. Roarke. Thank you both, for everything—and I do mean everything, even when I was being a selfish jerk." She left on their soft laughter, and when the door closed, Leslie grinned while Roarke settled back in his chair.

"For a while there, I didn't think she was going to come through," said Leslie.

"She's a headstrong and determined woman," Roarke observed. "Not unlike a certain daughter of mine."

"Yeesh," muttered Leslie good-naturedly, and he grinned at her.

§ § § -- December 5, 2005

Roarke and Leslie had just returned to the main house from seeing Melody, Nathan and Hannah Ireland off at the plane dock, and found Cindy in the study waiting for them, already packed up and dressed for work. "I've gotta get off to school before I'm late," she said, "but I just wanted to say thanks. For all sorts of things."

"Did you speak with Melody Ireland last evening?" Roarke inquired.

Cindy nodded. "Yeah, she came over to my bungalow, all contrite, and at first I thought she was going to jump all over me for disrupting her life like that. But then she told me her idea about writing Kenneth Auclaire's biography. I guess she was really sincere—she seemed so different from when I saw her over the weekend. I wonder what happened."

"Her children unwittingly helped her," Roarke said and summarized what Melody had told them in the study the evening before. "She insisted on seeing you alone, for she was worried that you wouldn't otherwise believe she had truly changed her mind."

"Uh-huh." Cindy's face cleared and she grinned at last. "In that case, I'll e-mail her after school today and let her know I'll be glad to help her with the biography. I've got tons of material she can use."

"Don't forget," a dry male voice put in just then, "you also have the source himself."

"Mr. Auclaire!" Cindy exclaimed, staring at the framed picture in her hands. "I didn't think you'd be back…I mean, I thought we wouldn't see you anymore."

"Hey, I had to stick around long enough to hear what those great-grandchildren of mine had to say," Auclaire said and laughed. "Smart kids. I'm glad to hear my son's little girl had a change of heart. I told her I wouldn't have cared too much if she did sell out to the rags, but to tell you the truth, it made me miserable. So it was good to see she was in the mood to forgive after all."

Roarke spoke up curiously then. "Tell me, Mr. Auclaire, do you feel you are ready to move on, when you have assisted Cindy and Mrs. Ireland with their efforts?"

"Well, I've got this feeling I'm on a sort of tight schedule here," Auclaire said, "so with any luck, Cindy'll have a chance to close herself up in a room with just me and all the stuff she has on me, and I can dictate to her while she records everything I tell her. After that, it's on to new adventures for me, I guess." His expression grew wondering. "Mr. Roarke, do you think it's possible I'll finally see my son, wherever I wind up?"

"Not only your son, but Lydia and Trudy, too," Roarke assured him. "I wish you and Cindy both all the best of luck—and Cindy, you and Mrs. Ireland have my best wishes as well in completing a successful project."

"Thank you, both of you," Cindy said and hugged both Roarke and Leslie. "Now I've really got to run. See you around!"

When she was gone, Leslie gathered up her purse, preparing to go home herself. "I think that's about the most unusual fantasy I've ever had the privilege of witnessing."

"Indeed," said Roarke, then grinned impishly. "At least until the next one."

* * *

**A/N:** _Thanks again to everybody for all the terrific reviews. Next up…what goes around comes around—more than once!_


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